


Doctor, doctor (give me the news)

by the_gabih



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e08 Changing Channels, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gabih/pseuds/the_gabih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a doctor at Seattle Mercy Hospital, and he isn't that lowly, but he feels it. Enter Victor Henriksen, surgeon extraordinaire and a hunk even by their hospital's standards, and Dean never really had a chance, did he?</p><p>Written for srs2012, with art by the wonderful skies_of_august.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor, doctor (give me the news)

* * *

 Barely four hours into Dean’s shift, and he’s already exhausted. It’s another one of those mystery cases, the ones Doctor Sexy’s team- the team Dean’s on- always seems to get. And it’s not that he’s complaining, because he isn’t, he loves his job, he does. It’s just that sometimes he wishes there was somebody else to pass the trickiest patients off to. The ones, for instance, with a really fucking good right hook.  
  
But there isn’t, because Doctor Sexy, for all that he’s a medical genius and physical god, can be really freaking obstinate at times, and so Dean finds himself in the break room, applying a cold compress to his eye while the others try to work out what the fuck is wrong with the builder who gave him the shiner which he’s currently trying to keep to a minimum.  
  
Of course, it’s at that moment that the door opens, and a familiar surgeon walks in.  
  
“Oh,” Dean says. “Mr Henriksen.”  
  
Seattle Mercy Hospital has a surplus of surgeons who could easily be passed off as underwear models- Dean’s younger brother Sam amongst them. But Victor Henriksen is something else entirely. Ever since the night Dean happened to be driving past his apartment and he’d happened to be in the window, perfectly lit and naked from the waist up save for a fluffy towel around his neck, he’s thought about nothing else. Not even Doctor Sexy and his cowboy boots. (Well, maybe once or twice...)  
  
(And just for the record, he’s not bitter that Sexy chose Doctor Piccolo over him. Not at all. Nu-uh. The amount of ice cream he got through after walking in on them was purely to get rid of the mental image of his co-worker and his boss fucking, that was all.)  
  
But he can do this. He can be cool, even with a black eye. Henriksen’s busy reassuring him that it’s just Victor, really, no need to stand on formalities, and oh by the way, how’s that patient doing- has a diagnosis been reached yet?  
  
“I, uh,” Dean stammers. “No. I mean, we thought it was MRSA but then he was seeing blue, then Doctor Sexy said it might be male menopause but then the guy started strangling people- well, Gabriel mostly- so we gave him a lumbar puncture but that came up negative and then he went and had another heart attack, and... I dunno.”  
  
Through it all, Henriksen- Victor stands there, getting himself a cup of coffee from the machine in the corner, nodding along to Dean’s explanation like he understands perfectly. “Just another day on your ward, then.”  
  
“Pretty much!” Dean grins, swinging his hands a little for want of something better to do with them. “Yeah. I mean, Doctor Sexy’s kind of a genius, so I’m sure we’ll get it in the end.”  
  
“Well, you’re not so bad yourself,” Victor comments, and Dean totally does not feel a flutter or anything similar in his chest at that. “Did you make a note of who was there during the heart attacks?”  
  
“No, I don’t think- I mean, we didn’t think to... You think that has something to do with it?”  
  
Victor shrugs. “Could be.”  
  
“Okay,” says Dean. “Okay, thanks. I’ll look into it.”  
  
“You do that.” Victor raises the cup to his lips, grimaces at the taste or the temperature (Dean can’t tell), swallows, and makes for the door. “Anyway, I have to get going- got a heart transplant in ten minutes. Good luck with your patient!”  
  
“Yeah,” says Dean, to his retreating back. “Thanks.”  
  
-  
  
The thing is, Hen-  _Victor_  is straight. Dean’s ninety-nine percent certain of it. He’s been married, for crying out loud. Three times. And all of his wives have been every bit as sexy as him.  
  
Dean’s not bad-looking, he knows that, but he’s a little pudgy around the edges. He likes mullet rock, not the soft guitar-or-ukulele-heavy stuff that seems to go off every five minutes around the hospital, and he has a list of issues longer than even Doctor Sexy’s. Why would anyone want him, when they had people like Doctor Grey to go after?  
  
It’s hopeless, he knows it is, and when the search for a bone marrow donor for Emma Hippolyta Tara Gillesbie, their latest prettily ill teenaged patient, reveals that Dean is her long-lost father, he’s almost grateful for having been given something else to think about.  
But not that grateful. Teenage girls, as it turns out, are really hard work, and this one in particular seems to be determined to send him to an early grave.  
  
-  
  
Between trying to settle Emma in, ferrying her between treatments, trying to persuade her that he isn’t the worst human being alive for not having known her mother was pregnant when he left town, and the influx of patients over Christmas and New Year’s, Dean doesn’t see Victor for another three weeks. Everyone’s rushed off their feet, there’s no time for even an ardent declaration of love or lust (though given the music that starts playing over the intercom on New Year’s Eve right before midnight, he’s guessing someone managed to fit one in anyway).  
  
The next time he sees Victor, it’s his birthday. Dean’s, not Victor’s. He doesn’t know when Victor’s birthday is (though he’d like to). Doctor Sexy and Doctor Piccolo are taking a break from their torrid relationship- the ins and outs of which Dean is  _not_  paying attention to, thankyou very much, Sam- and Doctor Novak is acting more and more weirdly by the week. Apparently angels are talking to him, or something. Dean doesn’t know.  
  
He has no idea how Victor knows his birthday, either, since he's never mentioned it to him before, but on January twenty-fourth he’s in the canteen when Dean goes in for lunch, holding a Roadhouse takeout box out to him.  
  
“I heard you like pie,” is his explanation. Dean blinks, takes the box, and opens it to find a slice of apple pie, a slice of peach, and one of cherry. “But I didn’t hear which type, so I thought I’d ask someone who might know.”  
  
Dean doesn’t know how the fuck he knew to go there, but he’s tempted to kiss him for it. But that would mean he risks dropping the pie, so he doesn’t. (The thought of making a scene in front of all his co-workers, his patients and Sam also occurs, but hey, it’s Seattle Mercy. Public kissing is tame.) Instead, he grins a little bashfully, and offers his effusive thanks. Victor waves it off, but he thinks he might have been blushing. Just the tiniest bit.  
  
Then he’s striding sexily away, off to save a patient in a tense operation or something, leaving Dean to carry on grinning stupidly at him until Sam comes up behind him, claps him on the shoulder and almost makes him drop the box with the force of his birthday noogie. Dean goes along with it, doing little more than snark in return, and if Sam’s underwear drawer has some itching powder sprinkled inside on Dean’s next visit, well. Nothing to do with him. And even if it were, the comments Sam makes, once he’s discovered who gave Dean the box of pie, warrant it.  
  
“Let me guess, you wish you were his coronary artery, so you could be wrapped around his heart.”  
  
“How’s your vasodilation?”  
  
“Is his middle name Flecainide? You should ask.”  
  
And so on. In fairness, Dean had thrown a much bigger (and dirtier) range of jokes at him when he’d fallen for Doctor Moore, but that was his prerogative as older brother. He was allowed, dammit. Sam? Isn’t, and it takes Dean throwing corpus cavernosum and various related jokes back at him before he finally agrees to leave the fuck off.  
  
At least, Dean thinks he’s agreed. Turns out his little brother is sneakier than he thought, especially when encouraged by the liberal use of itching powder against him.  
  
-  
  
All is quiet, at first. Valentine’s Day creeps closer, and Dean makes his usual plans for it: that is to say, of going to work, coming home and doing fuck-all in the evening, and possibly buying a box of chocolates for his own consumption, depending on how flabby or not he feels on that particular day.  
  
The plan works fine at first. Then, during a meeting to discuss the developments in their latest case (a yoga teacher who started off with a broken ankle, and now has numbness all over her body that apparently got better after she ate chocolate cake), Doctor Sexy sends him out for coffee. That should have been his first clue: Doctor Sexy isn’t arrogant, per se- not unjustifiably, at least- but he likes having people around to witness his brilliant leaps of logic in those meetings, not running errands.  
  
But alas, Emma was out late last night, and his resultant tiredness means he isn’t really thinking straight enough to notice. That, and Doctor Sexy is the last person he would ever expect to gang up on him in some nefarious, Sam-generated plot. Thus, when he’s halfway to the break room and Sam suddenly appears to bundle him into a tiny janitor’s closet, it catches him entirely by surprise.  
  
“What the-?!”  
  
“Ssh,” Sam tells him as he locks the door from the outside. “Call it an intervention. You’ll thank me later.”  
  
“You fucking- Sam! Let me out!”  
  
Sam laughs, because he’s a dick of a little brother, and keeps leaning back against the door while Dean hammers on it from the inside. He hears the occasional voice from outside- some quizzical, some worried, some amused- but the owners go after engaging in only a few moments’ banter with Sam. Dean can’t quite work out what he’s saying, which isn’t exactly helping his general sense of unease.  
  
“Y’know, if this is for what I did to your boxers, then dude, I’m sorry, okay? But this is taking it kinda far.”  
  
His is, apparently, the only voice Sam is entirely willing to ignore. Great. Fuckin’ peachy. Dean huffs out a sigh, resting his weight against the door and sliding slowly down to the ground. He’s too tired for this shit.  
  
God knows how long it is before the door opens again, but by that time Dean’s migrated over to slump against the wall opposite the door. Passers-by have stopped asking Sam what’s going on- maybe they just assume he’s standing there because he can- and as such, all is quiet outside, barring the occasional sound of passing feet and conversation.  
  
And the music. It’s faint at first, but Dean’s been at the hospital long enough to know when someone’s about to have a Significant Moment, long enough to pick out the quiet strains of a strummed guitar and a breathy voice, and he wonders whose turn it is this time. Maybe Doctor Novak’s finally going to get help for the voices he’s been hearing in his head. Maybe Doctor Sexy and Doctor Piccolo are breaking up (the thought doesn’t make him as happy as it used to). Maybe...  
  
The door opens, and there’s a startled yell as someone’s shoved inside, followed by a click as it’s locked behind them. Dean gets to his feet, trying to stay above the radius of flailing hands and legs, and ends up with an armful of person. Of a very familiar person.  
  
“Victor?”  
  
The surgeon stills. “Dean? What the hell?”  
  
“Fuck if I know.” It’s difficult enough to think straight, let alone work out what Sam’s thinking, too. Not with the guy he’s been crushing on for months pressed up against him. Right now, he’s just trying to keep his dick from getting any ideas about the situation.  
  
The music’s getting louder. Not that he notices. “I, uh. Victor...”  
  
Victor stiffens. Stands up straight, shuffles back, though the closet is cramped enough that Dean’s scrubs are touching his, in places. “Shit. Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
Has his breathing always been this loud? Dean swallows, trying to quiet it without much success. “I, um. Sam...”  
  
“Did he talk to you?” Victor’s voice, always so assured and confident, has a weird tone to it. Strained, almost. Dean can sympathise, but he’s got no idea why his colleague would be having the same reaction to their current situation as him.  
  
“What about? This?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Uh. No? I mean, we kinda had the beginnings of a prank war going on a little while back, so I guess I should have seen it coming, but...”  
  
“No, this,” says Victor, and before Dean can ask what he means, he’s being pressed up against the wall, Victor’s lips against his and his hands at his waist.  
  
...oh. That. But- “wait,” Dean sputters, the first moment he can draw enough breath to do so. “What?”  
  
Victor goes still. After a moment, his hands fall away. “Never mind,” he says. The tension is gone from his voice, replaced by a kind of heaviness. “Sorry. I guess we’ll just have to... wait for your brother to let us out.”  
  
Dean frowns. “You mean he didn’t put you up to that?”  
  
“Well, beyond shoving me into your typical harlequin setup with you, no.” There’s a huff of air that sounds kinda like a sigh, except that Victor is the hardest fucking surgeon around. He doesn’t sigh. Like, ever. “I mean, he tried getting me to man up and say something sooner, but I figured you flirted often enough to know when someone was coming on to you, and given you hadn’t looked all that interested...”  
  
“Wait,” Dean says again, a little incredulously. “You mean the pie? Dude, it was my birthday. I thought you were just trying to be nice.”

He can’t quite see Victor. It’s mostly the sound of fabric rustling that lets him know he’s shrugged. He rolls his eyes at that, despite the sudden lightness in his chest. This could work. This could actually be a thing. An awesome thing, in the midst of the hectic, angst-ridden mess that is life when you work at Seattle Mercy Hospital. Exasperation- with himself, with Victor, with both of them- can wait. He has months without kissing to make up for, and he might as well get it done before the chick stops singing.  
  
And if things get a little hot and heavy in the closet, and noisy enough to be heard outside it, well. Dean loves his little brother, and he’s grateful to him, but it serves him fucking right.


End file.
